


Wonderwall - Oasis

by EnduringChill



Series: Twelve in Twelve Mixed Tape [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Coffee Shops, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Jealousy, John Goes to War, Love Confessions, M/M, Misunderstandings, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Second Chances, Second Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringChill/pseuds/EnduringChill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The February Prompt for the Twelve in Twelve is about second chances. </p><p>Sherlock and John had been best friends at university until one night. Five years later and Starbucks will bring them back into orbit. </p><p>2016 Mixed Tape series<br/>Side One: Track Two</p><p>Wonderwall - Oasis<br/>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bx1Bh8ZvH84</p><p>Today is gonna be the day<br/>That they're gonna throw it back to you<br/>By now you should've somehow<br/>Realized what you gotta do<br/>I don't believe that anybody<br/>Feels the way I do, about you now</p><p>Back beat, the word was on the street<br/>That the fire in your heart is out<br/>I'm sure you've heard it all before<br/>But you never really had a doubt<br/>I don't believe that anybody<br/>Feels the way I do about you now</p><p>And all the roads we have to walk are winding<br/>And all the lights that lead us there are blinding<br/>There are many things that I<br/>Would like to say to you but I don't know how</p><p>Because maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me<br/>And after all, you're my wonderwall</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wonderwall - Oasis

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Itsallgood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsallgood/gifts).



> Thank you so much to callie4180 and 221bjen for their encouragement as I fumble my way through these prompts. Without them, I probably would have either given up and offered a typo -ridden mess.

“Double espresso,” the rich baritone purred.

John’s eyes shot up from his phone screen. Just two people ahead of him stood a dark wool coat topped with a luscious head of curls.

It can't be, John thought.

Last time he had caught a glimpse of Sherlock had been at university. John raised his hand to wave until-

“Ahem,” the lady behind cleared her throat.

John realised that the line had moved. “Sorry,” he muttered and shuffled forward.

Sherlock's hair was longer, almost a bit unruly. He had always had a mop of curls that would make anyone jealous, but he had kept it tight at the nape and around the ears. Now dark waves brushed along the collar of his coat.

John swallowed hard as Sherlock bent his head to fish a card out of his wallet. His profile had not changed much. If anything, his sharp cheekbones could cut glass now. He froze with his heart thundering. He could step out of line and leave. Sherlock wouldn’t see him if he left immediately. They could go another five years before meeting again. London was a big city and easy to get lost in.

“Could you move up?” The woman behind him sighed.

“Oh, my apologies,” John said.

Sherlock stepped to the side as the cashier printed a receipt, and tilted his head in John's direction. Panic gripped John's stomach and he thought he might vomit. His fingers gripped the handle of his cane so hard it made his knuckles white. He had to leave, run and never return to this Starbucks again. Did Sherlock live around here? Where did he work? What did he do? Did he ever go on to be the brilliant chemist John remembered him to be? Was he still with-

“Excuse me, sir?” The blonde cashier with too many facial piercings snapped her gum at him.

It was too late as all attention, including a pair of familiar azure eyes, landed on him. Sherlock’s full lips twitched into a grin while his gaze swept across John.

“Double tall vanilla latte,” John managed choke out. He saw Sherlock move to the bar. John was going to have to join him to get his drink. Escape was impossible now.

After he pocketed his wallet, John braced himself for the inevitable. Sherlock leaned on the bar with a warm smile. The longer hair suited him. He still looked ridiculously young despite the passage of time. A familiar ache throbbed in John's chest. He had wondered about Sherlock just two days ago. No matter how many years had passed since their very last conversation.

 

_“Next week?” Sherlock asks. “How long have you known?”_

_“I enlisted about six months ago. I wasn't meant to start basic for another two months.” John shrugs._

_“Were you ever going to tell me?” Sherlock paces his room, from the twin bed against the long window to the dresser exactly ten steps away._

_“Yes...eventually.” John stares at his faded trainers._

_Lately, John had forgotten about the commitment before he ever met Sherlock. Days had flown by in a blur of studying, listening to his best friend’s amazing deductions and trying to hide his blossoming affection for him._

  _“How long will you be gone?” Sherlock stops in the middle of the room._

_“Three months for basic. Another three months for my medical internship,” John says._

_“Six months, and you'll be back?”_

_John bites his bottom lip. “Then I'm off to Afghanistan or Africa.”_

_“For how long?”_

_John shrugs. “I'm not sure.”_

 

“Your receipt, sir,” the cashier said.

John blinked. “Oh, thanks.”

Sherlock’s eyes slipped to the battered cane at John's side. John had hated needing the damn thing. Bloody stiff knee. Now, he really loathed it in the presence of Sherlock.

“John, so good to see you,” he said.

John listened for any hint of insincerity. Most people couldn't tell when Sherlock was putting on airs or just blatantly lying. Yet John always knew.

Sherlock opened his arms for an embrace as John extended his hand. Both men avoided making direct eye contact. Sherlock dropped his hand while an embarrassed John moved to accept the embrace.

“Sorry,” John muttered as they shuffled together for an awkward one arm man-hug.

“Great to see you.” John's voice sounded like a squeak. He cleared his throat. “Are you working around here?”

Sherlock nodded. “Visiting a client.”

John's eyebrows shot up. “Client?”

“For work,” Sherlock said, dismissively. “You've been back for four months.”

“Of course you'd know,” John chuckled lightly. “What else do you see?”

Sherlock took a step back. “You were injured.” His brows drew together. “Are you alright? It was serious.”

John licked his lips. “Gunshot wound while tending to a fallen soldier. We came under heavy fire. The bullet wasn't bad, but the infection did most of the damage.”

“Tendon and muscle damage,” Sherlock said.

“I was honourably discharged.” John shrugged. “I couldn't hold a gun or operate...so...I'm back.”

“And the knee?”

John glanced down at his cane. “You remember that rugby injury? I blew it out again while in Afghanistan.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to comment, but snapped it shut as the barista placed a cup on the bar.

“Double espresso.” The young man in spectacles smiled brilliantly as his eyes walked over Sherlock's lithe frame.

John felt the hot sting of jealousy as fresh as the day he returned from leave four years ago.

Six months ago, John had left campus, his friends, and Sherlock for basic training. He’s different now. His body is lean and his mind is sharp. He walks with purpose towards the old dormitory, though his stomach is in knots. He's had six long months to think about his last conversation with Sherlock - and what had occurred at the height of their altercation. In fact, John couldn't stop thinking of it. He had several letters unsent in this duffle bag that had addressed his remorse, his emotions, and his hopes for their future.

 

_John sees the old stone building looming at the end of the brick path. He checks his battered wristwatch. On cue, students stream out of the dormitory to head to dinner. Since Sherlock never eats, he'll be studying alone. If not in his room, he'll have broken into the chemistry lab._

_John has to tell Sherlock how much he needs him. He's practiced his speech in his head for months. As he draws closer, the doors open. Sherlock pushed out with dark curls in a mess. John's heart thunders in his chest. He raises a hand, ready to call out._

_A taller boy with dark hair follows close behind Sherlock. John recognises him as Victor Trevor, an annoying acquaintance that always skulked in the background. He had always tried to get Sherlock's attention yet always failed, as he was vapid and idiotic. John had never trusted Victor, with his slick clothes and oily tongue. He had lived to flatter Sherlock. John had known it was only to get into Sherlock's trousers._

_John freezes, his heart pounds so hard that he feels sick. Victor falls in step with Sherlock and slips his arm around his waist. Not only does Sherlock mirror Victor’s actions, he turns to him with a smile John thought had only been reserved for him._

_John has traveled miles to tell Sherlock that he loves him and will do anything to return to him. Sherlock tilts his chin up to accept Victor’s kiss. It's messy and gratuitous. John bolts around to the back of the building. He heaves and covers the grass with his barely digested eggs and toast. Sherlock is with Victor now…._

 

Sherlock barely glanced at the hip barista as he ripped open a packet of raw sugar to dump into his espresso.

“Still take it black with no sugar,” John mused.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. “You still remember?”

John shook his head, his cheeks burned. “My brain holds on to the strangest details.”

“You ordered a vanilla latte,” Sherlock nodded to the cup placed in front of John.

“Yes. Didn't get fancy drinks in Afghanistan,” John popped the top to sprinkle cinnamon on the foam.

“Well…,” Sherlock glanced toward the door.

John wondered if Victor was due any moment. Could they still be together?

“I guess I should let you go.” John shuffled to the side.

“It was great to see you,” Sherlock said, warmly.

“Definitely. Really, really great.” John nodded. Disappointment seeped into his bones and weighed him down. He wanted to stop Sherlock. Are you with Victor? Do you ever think of me? I still miss you. His mind screamed while his smile remained steady.

John decided he would be the first to leave. With a nod, John shuffled to a table by the window. Truthfully, he had nowhere to go. Harry wouldn't be home for hours, and he hated her flat. She owned one too many cats that climbed over every surface. He watched Sherlock as he tapped away on his phone as he walked to the door.

With a heavy heart, John pulled his phone from his pocket. As usual, no messages. Perhaps he should make an appointment with Ella. He had been feeling rather hopeless before his run in with Sherlock. He was feeling downright despondent at the moment.

“May I join you?” A voice rumbled above him.

John's head shot up to see Sherlock with his hand on the back of the chair.

“Absolutely.” John pocketed his phone and moved his cup to make room. “You aren't in a rush?”

“No, I've finished my work early.” Sherlock shrugged out of his wool coat and draped it over the seat between them.

Sherlock had always dressed different from the other boys at St. Sebastian's. His trousers and shirt had been pressed and unlike the other boys, he didn't mind the suit jacket. In the five years since John had seen him, Sherlock had filled out his silk dress shirts nicely. His black suit had been cut by an expert tailor and was worth more than what John had in his bank account.

Knowing that he was ogling, John dropped his eyes to his cup. With the flick of his fingers, Sherlock unbuttoned his suit jacket to reveal a powder blue silk shirt with straining buttons. John smiled to himself. Some things never changed - including his old friend’s ability to find a shirt that fit properly.

“So,” John cleared his throat. “You mentioned a client nearby. I'm going to guess it doesn't have to do with chemistry.”

“Sometimes, it does,” Sherlock grinned.

After Sherlock had graduated from St. Sebastian’s, he had enrolled in a graduate chemistry program for forensics and drug development.

Sherlock's eyes darkened. “After a bit of trouble, I stepped away from school and drug development. I acquired practical knowledge with Scotland Yard.”

“Are you a detective?” John asked.

“Of sorts. It's a bit more unofficial, but I consult on their more difficult cases. I do some private consulting as well. Hence the client visit,” he said.

John wondered if Victor was waiting at home for Sherlock, tangled in bedsheets. The thought turned his stomach violently. His gaze dropped to Sherlock's left hand. No ring - a plus. It could be someone else. A gorgeous and brilliant man like Sherlock would never be alone for long.

“How do you like clinic work?” Sherlock leaned back in the chair.

John smirked. “And how did you guess that?”

Sherlock's deductions had a way of getting him into trouble at University. Most people didn't want to hear about the things they tried to hide coming from an particularly acerbic tongue. John had come to Sherlock's aid on a few occasions when his tongue raised trouble. Sherlock couldn't help himself though. He spoke the plain truth even if it wasn't pretty.

Sherlock rattled off a list of telltale signs about John’s life. Of course, it was all true and a bit depressing. Still, John didn't mind watching Sherlock’s mind work. He was more beautiful with every passing second. The new lines on Sherlock's face made him distinguished, almost harder. John sensed something a bit dangerous lurking behind his sea green eyes. When they met John's, he felt his heart stutter. How could he still have this much effect after five years?

“What happened with Mary?” Sherlock asked after a moment of silence.

“Mary?” John's stomach dropped.

“You were dating when you left,” Sherlock replied. His jaw clenched.

“Barely.” John fiddled with his half empty paper cup. His shoulder and knee throbbed at the mention of his ex.

“I saw the announcement. You were engaged a few years ago,” Sherlock said quietly.

 

_John's eyes met Sherlock's._

_“What does Mary think of all this?” Sherlock snaps._

_“She was upset, but not like this,” John counters back. “Why do you care?”_

_“Because I need you!” Sherlock huffs. He refuses to even look at John._

_“To run after you? To make you look brilliant? Seriously Sherlock, you don't need me to do that. There are any number of people waiting to worship you.” John thinks of Victor._

_“I don't want them, I want you. Only you. Always you!” Sherlock freezes, suddenly aware of his confession._

_“What?” John stills._

_“Never mind. Just go.” Sherlock turns to the window with his arms wrapped around himself in a protective hug._

_“No, what did you mean by that?” John steps closer._

_“Nothing. You're right. I don't need you. I'll be better off without you holding me back.” Sherlock jaw clenches._

_John shakes his head. “So that's how it's going to go then. I enlist to serve my country and you have no use for me if I'm not following you around to inflate your ridiculous ego!” John erupts._

_Sherlock shrugs. “Sure. Whatever. Have a lovely time killing people, John.”_

 

“So, what happened?” Sherlock asked.

John paused to collect his thoughts. How can he condense what happened from the time he saw Sherlock and Victor to the moment he foolishly proposed to Mary?

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched at the corners, threatening to smile. “I know a lovely Italian place down the street.”

 

Sherlock led John two blocks down the road to Angelo’s, a cozy Italian bistro. A short man with grey hair greeted them enthusiastically.

“Sherlock! It's been awhile. How are you?” He grabbed his hand for a vigorous shake.

“Working. Business is booming.” Sherlock winked.

“Your usual is free.” The man gestured to a table in front of a large window with a view of the busy street.

“Perhaps something a bit more out of the way, Angelo,” Sherlock suggested.

“Oh, of course,” Angelo replied, conspiratorially. He grabbed two menus and led them toward a secluded table in the back, away from the kitchen.

“Thank you.” Sherlock nodded.

John wondered how many men Sherlock had brought to Angelo’s door. Did Sherlock and Victor sit in the window while having quiet dinners? Did they tuck back here to share private kisses?

“Red or white?” Angelo asked.

Sherlock’s eyes swept over John as he considered his answer. “Red, definitely.”

With a nod, Angelo disappeared.

“So,” Sherlock started.

“You seem to know the owner well,” John said.

“He was a client. Cleared him of a murder charge. Business partners can be so ruthless,” Sherlock said airily.

John smiled. “Your life sounds incredibly interesting.”

“It has its moments.” Sherlock folded his large hands on the table and leaned forward. “But you were going to tell me what happened with you and Mary .”

John wondered how much to tell. How honest should he be?

“I returned from basic training six months after I left, and I ran into her,” John began. “We wrote. I visited while on leave.”

“Sounds passionate.” Sherlock remarked dryly.

John glanced up. “It was comfortable, at least the idea of it was. I was away and only had a picture to consider. One Christmas, I proposed because it was what was supposed to happen.”

“What changed your mind?” Sherlock leaned closer.

John considered his reply for a moment. “Seeing combat. It changes you. Suddenly comfortable wasn't enough.”

Sherlock grinned. “You always craved danger.”

John touched his shoulder. “A lot of good it did me. I'll never be a surgeon now.”

Sherlock’s reply was interrupted by Angelo as he placed two wine glasses on the table.

“Ah, a 2001 merlot. You know my favourites.” Sherlock closed his eyes to breathe in the rich aroma.

“I saved it for something special.” John saw a distinct twinkle in the owner’s eyes.

“Thank you, Angelo. I can pour,” Sherlock said brusquely.

“I'll give you time with the menus.” Angelo scurried away.

John smiled as he opened his. Sherlock was still a bit of a rude arsehole. “What's good?”

“The chicken fettuccine.”

John hummed. “That's my favourite.”

“I remember.” The tenderness in Sherlock's voice reached into John's chest and squeezed his insides.

“What are you getting?” John stared so hard into his menu his eyes hurt.

Sherlock closed his menu. “Probably the same.”

John cocked an eyebrow. “Do you eat now?”

“Barely,” Sherlock huffed. “However, tonight is a special occasion.”

John couldn’t help but feel warm. It almost felt flirty, as if he was on a first date and not having coffee with an old friend. He needed to get his wild thoughts under control. Despite the tone and possible glances, the past could not be erased.

 

_“Sod off,” John spits before he turns on his heel. Where does Sherlock get off on passing judgment?_

_Perhaps tomorrow, Sherlock will have cooled off and seen reason. John needs to go back to his room, perhaps have a drink and try again tomorrow._

_“John, wait,” Sherlock calls as John's hand rests on the door knob._

_“What, you great git?” John turns around, hoping to see a contrite Sherlock before him._

_His friend’s eyes are wide with fury and...hunger. Sherlock's gaze switches from John's lips to his eyes, with his chest heaving as if he's run the pitch of the rugby field. John feels something in his chest and crotch stir. He can't say he's never thought of his best friend like that. In fact, more and more his fantasies had revolved less around Mary and more towards Sherlock, with his long arms and legs and rich voice. He had wanted a low rumbling chuckle more than a high pitched giggle. John could not remember the last time he cared about cleavage, but Sherlock's arse had been a massive distraction._

_Now with Sherlock’s wild eyes scanning him like radar, John's cock begins to pulse. In a blink, he's being crowded against the door with six feet of his best friend crushing against him. He's never kissed a boy before. The scrape of stubble burns his chin and electrifies every cell in John's body. He practically sucks Sherlock's tongue into his mouth to taste and tease. Large hands cradle his face firmly, but tenderly. It feels as if John has been holding his breath for years and finally now with Sherlock's lips on his, can exhale. His lungs burn with the stale breath of denial._

_Sherlock jumps away, his face tinged with shame. “John, I...”_

_John inhales again. Mary, deployment, his parents run in and his chest aches. He's leaving in a week, and now to find that Sherlock does feel those things for someone and it's him - it's too much._

_“I've got to go. I'm sorry.” John's hand slips behind him to blindly grab for the door knob._

_“Really? That's it?” Sherlock's mouth pulls to a thin line._

_“I still have to go.” John's desperate to leave. His head pounds and he feels he could be sick._

_“Fine.” In five strides, Sherlock moves to the other side of the room, far from John. “I won't wait.”_

_John's not certain what he means, but it sounds like a threat. “Never asked you to. Goodbye Sherlock.”_

 

John’s phone calls and text messages had gone unanswered in the week following their row. While away, John had penned several letters that had been locked away in his trunk, for years now.

Sherlock’s phone rang. With an exaggerated eye-roll, Sherlock fished inside his suit jacket. He glanced at the screen before he brought it to his ear. “Yes?”

John felt his presence disappear. He sipped his wine and attempted to not listen in.

Sherlock sighed. “Do you really need me now?” He glanced over to John. “I’m busy.” His fingers drummed impatiently on the table. “Fine, I will call later.”

John wondered if that was Victor. If it was, Sherlock didn’t seem too happy to have to take call. Regardless, John was itching to know. Even if he did find out, what was John hoping would happen? It had been five years, and they were different people now.

“Have you decided?” Angelo appeared at the table.

Sherlock handed his menu to Angelo. “We’ll both have chicken fettuccine. And please bring a basket of bread,” Sherlock grinned at John, “he’s famished.”

“Certainly.” Angelo nodded.

John draped the napkin across his lap. “How did you deduce that I was hungry?”

“You’ve watched every plate that has left the kitchen. And I am certain that I heard your stomach rumble.” Sherlock refilled John’s glass.

“Can’t get anything past you.”

While John longed to ask about Victor, he was not ready for the answer. Not yet. He asked after Sherlock’s parents. And the saga of Mycroft’s ever changing waistline was definitely entertaining. Of course, Sherlock gleaned that John’s sister had been in and out of different rehabs and that Clara was about to leave for good.

“You are staying with them,” Sherlock nodded between bites of chicken.

John sighed. “Until I can find something I can afford.” He took a deep breath. “Which is impossible in London.”

‘Yes, London is ridiculously expensive for one.” Sherlock glanced at his phone.

“Am I keeping you from something?” John’s stomach clenched.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied distractedly, then his eyes shot up to John’s face. “No. It can wait until later.”

Sherlock ate only the chicken and left a pile of noodles on the left side of his plate. Years ago, John would take the noodles and swap out some of his chicken. Every meal had consisted of some sharing and bartering to get Sherlock to eat. John considered offering his chicken, but Sherlock motioned to Angelo to clear the plates. The matter on Sherlock’s mind apparently could not wait.

John pulled his worn wallet from his back pocket. The lack of bills inside was distressing, but a card would do.

“No,” Sherlock said. “I suggested the restaurant, so this is my treat.”

“I can’t let you…” John protested.

“John, you are home on a measly military pension and forced to work per diem at a clinic. You know my family had money five years ago and that hasn’t gone away. Allow me to buy dinner.” Sherlock leaned forward.

John pursed his lips. It was difficult to not feel like a charity case. He could see Sherlock curled at home with Victor later tonight, as they laugh over John’s desperate state. How thirsty John looked for Sherlock.

“Fine.” John settled back in his chair. “This was lovely, you know, catching up.”

A sad smile settled on Sherlock’s lips. “Yes, it was.”

John drained the rest of his glass and pushed back from the table. “Hopefully it won’t be another five years.”

“I hope not, John,” Sherlock replied, softly.

With a heavy heart, John clutched his cane and stood. He could not find the words to say goodbye. However, Sherlock had plans and he was just holding him back.

John extended his hand. “Thank you for dinner, old friend.”

Sherlock’s hand was warm as he gave a small squeeze. “Of course, dearest friend.”

John nodded and shuffled around the table. His head was full of all the questions he never asked and the things he never said. Another opportunity lost.

“John,” Sherlock called.

He turned around to see Sherlock’s eyes shining with promise. “Yes?”

Long fingers fiddled with a white cloth napkin as he shifted his weight. “What about another bottle?”

“Bottle?”

Sherlock gave him a half grin and he looked like that schoolboy John had met six years ago. “Another bottle of wine. You haven’t had Angelo’s tiramisu.”

Relief crashed over John and he almost felt the need to weep. “Of course. Dessert.” Before John reclaimed his seat, he had to know. “But what about the phone call? Isn’t Victor waiting?”

Sherlock frowned. “Victor?”

John cleared his throat. “Victor Trevor, from uni.”

Sherlock let out a laugh. “Whatever made you think of him?”

“I saw you...with him,” John managed to choke out.

“When?” Sherlock looked genuinely perplexed.

John felt foolish standing in the middle of the a nearly empty restaurant. He shuffled back to reclaim his seat across from Sherlock.

“I came back from training and I went to the university. I saw you and Victor…,” John swallowed the lump in his throat. “I saw you kiss him.”

“When was this?” Sherlock’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Six months after we...said goodbye….after, you know.” John chewed on his lower lip.

Sherlock blinked rapidly as he gazed at the ceiling. “You were right about Victor. He was waiting for you to leave me alone for five seconds before he pounced. I was angry and hurt...and foolishly allowed myself to be flattered by his attention.” His eyes flicked to John. “I felt rejected then. I was immature and selfish.”

John let out a breath. “You’re not with him?”

“Good God, no. I suffered him for two years which was a horrible mistake. Victor enjoyed some unsavoury habits that I joined him in. It made his company more bearable. When I basically flunked out of my graduate program, Mycroft kicked him out. I should probably thank my brother for that but I would never give him the satisfaction.”

John laughed and shook his head. “I thought that phone call was him...and...I don’t know what I thought.”

“That phone call was Lestrade, Inspector with the Yard. He has some evidence on a case that he wants me too see. I told him that it could wait. I don’t think he believed me as I never turn down a case.”

“So, you’re unattached? Like me?” John could not believe his mouth blurted the question.

Sherlock’s full lips curl into a sly smile. “Are you flirting?”

John rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I’m doing. I wish I had'nt run away that night. I wish I made more of an effort to put things right with us before I left. I wish I sent the pile of letters I have written you over the last five years.”

Sherlock reached across the table and laid his hand on John’s. “Every day I regret the things I said. I was so afraid of losing you, but instead of telling you that, I lashed out. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Oh Christ Sherlock, absolutely. We were both so foolish.” John squeezed his hand.

Angelo brought another bottle of wine. With the tension lifted, laughter rose from the table. Sherlock recounted stories from some of his cases while John talked about the service. One bottle of wine became two. John didn’t want the night to end. Now that the air had been cleared, what did that mean? A renewed friendship? The part with their conscience clean?

Angelo approached the table. “Sherlock, you are the last ones here. You know I adore you…”

Sherlock’s head whipped around. “I hadn’t noticed we were the only ones left.”

“I’m sorry,” John said. “Old friends catching up.”

“You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.” Angelo grinned.

Sherlock fished in his pocket for his wallet. “Let me settle up and clear out for you.”

Angelo held up both hands. “No, your money is no good tonight. Consider it a gift from me to you both. I hope to see you again,” he said to John.

Chancing a glance in Sherlock’s direction, John nodded. “I hope so too.”

Sherlock stood to grab Angelo’s hand between his. “Thank you.”

As John struggled with his jacket, Sherlock moved behind him to help. The weight of his hands on John’s shoulders caused gooseflesh across his skin. With a wave to Angelo, they shuffled out the front door into the night. The street had quieted since the evening. Only a few people bustled past the darkened stores.

They walked along in a contemplative silence. John went over the words in his heads over and over. It was now or never.

“John, I..” Sherlock started.

“Listen, Sherlock…” John stopped.

They chuckled and paused on the sidewalk.

“Please, let me go first.” John took a deep breath in. He turned to face Sherlock. “It took six months of training to realise that I had left the best thing in my life in London. When I returned, I had every intention of telling you how I left - until I saw you with Victor. Regardless, I thought of you every damn day. Even when I was foolishly engaged to Mary. After we broke it off. No matter where I was, you were in my thoughts.” John paused to find the rest of his words. “Seeing you today, it brought it all back. The night we kissed, God I wanted so much more, but I was scared of so many things.”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted. “I would take friendship if that was all that you offered. I wanted and still want so much more. You fascinated me at eighteen. Now, you’ve seen more. The depths of you are unfathomable but I want to explore every mile, every inch.”

They collided like a car crash, arms reaching and fingers sinking into fabric. It felt as desperate as the kiss five years ago, but this time filled with hope. John’s tongue slipped along Sherlock’s bottom lip only to be invited inside a warm mouth flavoured with garlic and wine. Like the first night, Sherlock’s hands cradled John’s face to tilt his lips up to meet his. Tongues plunged and explored slowly. This was the first kiss of many to come.

The giggles of a passing group of girls pulled them apart. The air danced between them as they caught their collective breath.

“I thought,” John said at last, “that surviving the gunshot and infection was my second chance at life. I realise that it is this. You are my second chance.”

Sherlock captured his lips once again. “John, I have a second bedroom. You can stay as long as you like. I don’t want you at Harry’s or on the other side of town. I want you as close to me as possible. Please say yes.”

John chuckled. “Did you ask me to move in with you?”

“Of sorts. You will have your own space. I want the chance to start over and do this again - the right way.” Sherlock nuzzled his neck.

“Where do we start?” John asked breathlessly.

“Two-two one Baker Street.” Sherlock kissed John again.


End file.
